


The Waters of Avalon

by istolemynamefrommykin



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Canon Continuation, Canon-Typical Violence, Friends to Lovers, Modern Era, Multi, Not Beta Read, Post-Canon, Redemption, Swordfighting, Swords & Sorcery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:14:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28438938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/istolemynamefrommykin/pseuds/istolemynamefrommykin
Summary: Thousands of years after Arthur's death, Merlin continues to prepare for his return. He's lived a thousand lives, a thousand names but Merlin will always ring true. He's seen countless wars and horrid betrayals but nothing strikes him harder than seeing Arthur bleed out in his arms. His master, his king, his closest friend, his... dangerous line of thought. That pain is no longer fresh but it remains a dull ache at his sternum as he passes the lake of his beloved each day. Until one day on his routine walk, he sees a young boy with a too familiar arched brow and skilled hands when the pain turns into hope and Kilgharrah's words ring in his mind: "for when Albion's need is greatest, Arthur will rise again"Updates every Wednesday!
Relationships: Gwaine/Percival (Merlin), Gwen/Lancelot (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Morgana/Morgause (Merlin)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	1. Prologue - Merlin

Merlin had never hated his magic more. 

There were times, as a child, where he would swear off his magic. Declare it a cruel thing that only causes harm. Make grandiose accusations against magic that would make Uther Pendragon proud. But those promises, those declarations, never came to pass. For magic was a part of Merlin as much as Merlin was a part of the world of magic. As he aged, he was able to reshape his view of his own talents. He started to see himself as a sorcerer, as Emrys, rather than a monster. All that work, overturned by two small words. 

_Leave me._

Merlin would never forget the look on Arthur’s face. That set jaw, flared cheeks, and stony face. Merlin could live with the anger, the betrayal, even the disgust. But it was when Arthur put up the shields, the walls behind his eyes so that Merlin could not gaze upon them and know what Arthur was feeling, as he so often had the privilege to do. Now that privilege was gone. He was but a stranger to Arthur now. 

_Leave me._

Merlin resigned himself to not getting what he desired often. He once wanted to be normal, free of the curse of his magic. But no number of wishes, no amount of sheer anguish could rid him of it. So he learned to accept that he would always be one with magic. Despite the dream he and all creatures of magic had, a small part of him at the base of his sternum thought he would never see the day where magic was welcomed and celebrated. He would still fight for that future, as was his destiny foretold by many, but he didn’t believe for a second that he would ever be able to practice his own magic in public. And then there was Arthur. 

_Leave me._

Merlin carved a deep and spacious hole for Arthur in his chest. Some days that felt like it consumed him more than his own talents did. That it was the admiration and devotion to Arthur that ran alongside his blood rather than magic. Merlin understood that he would never be Arthur’s equal, never get his recognition; he never wanted that. If he had he would have told all the stories of too conveniently falling branches and quickly healed wounds. But that’s not why he did it. He did all this because his love for magic makes him want to fight for it. 

_Leave me._

He did this because of his love for his family: his mother, Gaius, the knights, Guinevere, even Kilgharrah. 

_Leave me._

He did this to honor the fallen; the people that had given the ultimate sacrifice for Merlin and his destiny. Balinor. Lancelot. Freya. God Freya. 

_Leave me._

Here he was again, holding someone he loved in his arms and forced to watch the light slowly sink out of their eyes. Except this time those eyes did not welcome him. In fact, they barely looked at him and when they did he was faced with cold, blank slates that spoke volumes and yet nothing at all. He did this for Arthur. 

_Leave me._

He did this for Arthur and he always would. That is his destiny. He might not be able to defy prophecy but he would try his hardest. He was Emrys. Master of the Old Religion. The Last Dragonlord. Arthur may hate him for his gifts but he would use every last one of them to make sure Arthur has the opportunity to hate him for a long life. Even that would be less painful than losing him. 

_Leave me._

He resolved himself and gathered his emotions. He could mourn the loss of his friend, the other half of his life, after the piece of metal was removed from Arthur’s chest. 

_Leave me._

Merlin would never leave Arthur. He would serve him, aid him, love him until his dying breath. 

_Leave me._

If only he had known just how true that statement was.


	2. Chapter 2 - Merlin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's my birthday and in the spirit of giving here's this weeks chapter a little early. Hope you enjoy it!

The weeks after Arthur’s death were freshly burned into Merlin’s mind at all times. The pain in Guinevere’s eyes. The shocked air all around the castle. The tears of the knights shed in private. Camelot itself was cloaked in a blanket of loss so strong that no amount of good favor could dispel it for even a moment. Even as each of the 15 centuries passed those particular images would always haunt his waking thoughts. Well it was likely 15 centuries; mankind has not been in short supply of methods in telling time and they all jumbled in Merlin’s mind. Nevertheless, time could not heal all wounds, no matter how much mortals valued and repeated Menander’s adage. Only death relieved those who loved Arthur of the pain. This was not a privilege Merlin was awarded. 

The memories of those first few weeks after Arthur’s end only scorched Merlin’s mind as the focal motivator for marching forward through years, head held high, waiting for the day of his return. After all, Kilgharrah had told him to _take heart, for when Albion’s need is greatest, Arthur will rise again._ Still, sometimes it was hard to keep faith when Merlin had to sit and watch all the turmoils of the Earth and its people. There were several moments where he couldn’t believe that it wasn’t enough to bring Arthur back- and made him fear for just how dark the day he would return will be. 

When Camelot dissolved, Merlin was almost absolutely sure Arthur would pop out of the lake at least out of anger. But there wasn’t even a ripple as the five kingdoms of Albion became one conglomerate nation. And when the Romans came calling them Brittania, the Albion that Merlin knew would never be seen again. 

Kings and governments and nations and religions and organizations all came and passed. They warred against one another, refusing to see that they were more alike than they were different and chose instead the goal of conquering each other. Years passed, names changed, what the mortals thought was power shifted between them as if they were passing a bottle. However these interactions lacked the friendliness and trust required of sharing a drink. Merlin tried to pay only the necessary attention to these events; they reminded him of everything Arthur hated. They crushed his legacy into enough pieces that the great Arthur Pendragon and his beautiful Camelot became nothing but a legend; his last name even fell to the unknown. His story only shared the title of King Arthur. Perhaps Merlin should be grateful that the Pendragon name, the one that loathed magic, was gone. It was pointless though, as the hatred of magic only tripled when the Pendragon lineage died out. 

As the people of what they began to call Britain forced their expansion into places they did not belong, they found they ran out of places to destroy in the name of wealth and power. Fools, all of them. Nevertheless, they still weren’t satisfied so they took to the seas. They found a “New World” (as if the land and its people hadn’t been there long before the British came). And though he had never met them, from word of mouth Merlin learned that the people native to these lands were sorcerers- or at least practitioners of magic in some capacity. The stories Merlin had heard of them reminded him of the Druids. Hated by those who did not understand- and thus feared- the connection between life and magic. Hunted, harmed, _killed_ when all they wanted was to connect with the life around them. Merlin had to see yet another rendition of those without it hunting and “cleansing” the Earth of its natural magic. Unfortunately that meant he had to spend the unforeseeable future hiding his magic yet again. 

Somedays, especially the hard days, Merlin would dream that when Arthur would walk out of the lake, he would remember how good his magic could be and would welcome it back into the world. It was likely a foolish dream. 

And although the years hardened Merlin’s heart and destroyed the naivety that once shaped his actions, he refused to sit aside when his magic could help. When plagues, famines, and wars would come across the land that once was Avalon, Merlin would use his magic discreetly (and _actually_ discreetly after learning from his mistakes in Camelot) to help those that came to occupy the land. It’s what Gaius would’ve wanted him to do. It’s what Arthur _would’ve done_ had he the opportunity. Maybe it’s even what Kilgharrah would’ve encouraged him to do. 

Kilgharrah was one presence he missed most. Being a dragonlord without a dragon, _his_ dragon, was possibly the worst emptiness to feel over the years. As much as he found comfort in the fact that Arthur would return, he mourned the fact that his winged friend would not. He was a creature born of magic, just as Merlin was, so he could not truly die. But Kilgharrah had moved on out of this type of living a long time ago. Merlin hoped he was at peace wherever that was. 

He wondered if he, himself was at peace. Never straying from Avalon, using aging potion after aging potion, living thousands of lifetimes under different monikers. He had picked up about every job he could ever hope of, had built up a personal library Geoffery would be jealous of. He’s had friends, lovers, and even people he could call family. As they came and passed he mourned their loss but celebrated their life more. It should've been enough to ensure Merlin peace while he awaited the prophecy to come to fruition. But Merlin could not kid himself, he was anything but at peace. 

There were a few sporadic decades, seemingly brief to him now and the memories hazy, that were likely Merlin’s darkest. The pain of hiding his magic after living only a day of not having to plagued him. After centuries of ignoring the pain of losing all his people, of losing his home, in the name of “focusing on the prophecy”, it all came crashing down upon him. 

Merlin spent many nights trying to drink himself into the grave. _Finally living up to Gaius’ readied excuse for his absence,_ Merlin mused to himself. However brilliant the power of alcohol to mask the pain of the heart, it does little to actually heal it. One night Merlin found himself drinking dangerously close to the edge of a bridge. Most memories of the night were gone to Merlin’s mind but he remembered crying. No, not crying- true agonized sobs escaped his chest. And he begged, he screamed for Arthur. 

“Is this not enough! Is this not dark enough to bring you back? Why won’t you come back?!” he shouted until his throat was burned raw. When he could no longer speak he asked himself the questions he dare not speak aloud. _Am I not enough? Why couldn’t he come back for me?_ He even pitched himself over the bridge into one of the Lake’s runoffs, hoping that Freya would put him out of his misery. However, he simply awoke laid up next to a meander in the stream, smelling stale. It was certainly a low for Merlin. Unfortunately it was a low he visited a few more times. 

Merlin resided himself to this pattern. Taking one day as its own, numbing himself to the passage of time. He had a hard time placing when events happened whether they be last week or last millennia. Part of him assumed this was Merlin’s true destiny: to float in the inbetween and to never quite feel whole or empty. Maybe this was the plan his magic had for him. The eternity that awaited him. 

One fateful day changed all of that. Merlin found himself teaching a general English class at some university in Somerset. They all seemed the same to Merlin; formal education was not important enough to try and distinguish all the buildings and campuses. It was merely something to do and it was something he easily excelled at. He learned fairly quickly what a privilege it was that between his mother and Gaius he learned to read and write and he spent most of his life trying to read books to those who couldn’t. He unintentionally interacted with what now would be deemed “classics” and the University had seen him fit to teach. 

After one of his classes he decided to take a walk before some student found they needed him for whatever reason. And across the perfectly cared for lawn, Merlin saw a face that he never thought he would see again. While the face was much younger than he had ever known it to be, Merlin’s chest seized at the recognition of those uneven eyes and that arched brow. 

_It couldn’t be,_ Merlin thought, lost in his stupor. _It’s impossible._ Arthur _is supposed to come back._. 

Merlin reeled in his emotions only because he was in public. Truth be told he was having difficulty keeping himself from crying. Because there, across the grass, stood the man he once knew as a father. 

A measly few meters away stood Gaius.


End file.
